


See me

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, F/M, Fear Play, Furiosa on top, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, safe words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 10:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10920123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: Tyellas asked for “Dominant Furiosa. Submissive Max. Kinky as fuck. During, after, or before (!) Fury Road.”In my head, this fic was "before", but in fact it's during - at the Citadel after Max is captured. The Furiosa/Max is consensual, so I haven't used the Dubious Consent tag, but this is still the Joe-era Citadel.Written as an extra during the pinch-hit extension period.





	See me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tyellas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyellas/gifts).



It’s impossible to keep track of time, in here. It may be months since the white-painted raiders brought him in. The healing of his brand had been one way of measuring; after that, between lack of daylight and the lightheadedness of being bled, who knows.

Moments stick out from the woozy blur. A particularly bad nightmare, worse than what he wakes up to. Someone snatching the prod and poking him with it. And one strange moment when one of the Citadel people sees him. He’s almost out of it, unhooked from a war boy, out of the cage but too weak to fight. It’s just another day, and then she looks at him. Instead of sliding over him, as if he’s part of the furniture, her eyes meet his. 

It feels like recognition, though he doesn’t think he’s seen her before. She’s tall, with cropped hair, and she sees him, really sees him. The she moves on, and he feels himself sliding back into the blur. Further down the blood shed, he hears a crisp voice demanding answers, Organic’s lazy grumble. The voices get closer: the woman is telling them to disinfect something, to take more care. Organic comes up with a couple of war boys, and Max is trying to get himself together enough to fight, when his arms are pinned. Something stings painfully on his bleeding neck.

She is tall, with a chain at her waist that he’s come to recognise as a sign of rank. She has a metal gauntlet on one hand – no, that is her hand, an elaborate prosthetic. When he meets her eyes again, he gets that sense of being seen, of someone actually looking at him, brief but unmistakable. Then she’s gone. This time, he’s left longer to recover.

It sticks in his memory, for a while. It’s not often that anyone pays attention, let alone the types in authority. When they do, it usually makes things worse. A punch from another imperator – he’s found out the name that goes with the chain – sends him swinging in his cage. 

Not long after that, as far as he can tell, the Organic tells him he’s going to be an imperator’s toy, so he expects to be a punching bag again. They feed him better than usual, give him a rest from being bled. A crew of five war boys take his muzzle off, though they snap a leather collar onto him instead. Then they take him through a maze of stairs and corridors, and hammer on a door.

The woman with cropped hair opens it. For just a second, she looks surprised, then disgusted. 

“What.” 

“Brought you your pet,” Organic tells her. “You don’t come to the parties, thought you should have a little recreation. He’s yours until sundown.” The woman is about to speak when he adds, “Was going to tell Joe about it.” She pauses.

“Not a good time.” There’s a strong implication that she was on her way somewhere, that she has better things to do. Max is trying to work out when the sun will set: he can see daylight in the room behind her.

“Bring him back tomorrow,” Organic offers, with a sticky sound as he licks his lips. “You can have him all night.”

“Today will do,” she says, tight but resigned, and steps back to let them in. “And take that collar off him,” she adds, as they pass.

“He’s a raging feral,” Organic says, half-warning, half-leer. She ignores him.

They dump Max on the floor, with a nudge that sends him sprawling; he’s off balance, with his hands still cuffed behind him. All five of them keep hold of him as they get the collar off, taking no chances. They jump away, leaving him in a heap, joking and jostling until something makes them go quiet. By the time Max has got his knees under himself, ready to stand up, he hears the door shut after them.

He gets to a crouch, trying to check the exits while keeping an eye on the woman. That door is the only one, rigged up with switches, a code lock. To his surprise, she doesn’t react at all. She’s leaning against a carved stone table, watching him. 

She’s close to the door, commanding the room but not actually barring his way. There’s a bed in one corner, and a small window. It’s too small and, judging by the steps up, too high to escape from, though he’s not certain about the last one. He wonders if he should rush her, try the door. She’s still watching, apparently curious to see which he’ll go for. That decides him.

“What do you want?” His voice is rusty from lack of use. She looks him over before answering.

“Nothing. From you,” the last words are quieter, not really to him. Then, “Even if you got out, there are five occupied floors between here and the outside.” He wonders why she’s telling him that, but it sounds plausible. “We’ve got more than two hours to sunset. Just need to wait it out.”

Max grunts. Clearly politics are being played. He steadies himself in his crouch, shifting his weight onto his better leg. He can get up from this position, even with his hands tied, and it’s better for his twitchiness than sitting would be. They wait.

He keeps checking the room, from habit as much as anything else: the exits, the furniture, her.

After more than a dozen checks, their eyes meet again. It’s shocking, the sense of connection, of recognition. Most people in this place barely notice him, any more than they pay close attention to the rock walls or the floor under their feet. If anyone does look, it means trouble: Organic sizing him up for a bleeding, a war boy or an imperator looking for something to torment. He can’t shake the sense that this woman is seeing him, Max Rockatansky, the person he was before all this. It’s like being warmed, like being stripped bare. 

He makes himself look away to check the exits again. His breath sounds very loud in the quiet of the room. The next time he looks back, she’s still watching him, her eyes dark. 

“What?” He doesn’t know what he’s asking.

“I could do such bad things to you,” she says, her voice gentle. He’s already noticed that she doesn’t bellow, but this is softer still. “If you’ll let me.” Max stares at her.

She’s giving him a choice, the first he’s had since he got to this place. She’s still leaning on the table, making no move to come closer. He looks more closely. For the first time, he lets himself think beyond the basic threat she poses, that everyone in here poses.

She holds herself quietly, making no demands and exerting no control. Bafflingly, Max finds himself noticing the elegant carriage of her body, the curve of her hips. Staring at her, he becomes aware that his libido is showing signs of life. His body has had its first break in he doesn’t know how long. It heals fast, given even a little recovery time; now it’s responding to her. Meeting her green eyes, he can see something under her reserve, a guarded hunger. It makes him wonder what she’d be like when she lets go, how she would take what she wants. He realises he wants to know. Very slowly, he shifts from his crouch, gets back on his knees.

She’s pleased. Her body language is still calm, but he was right, there’s a sense of power to her – though no swagger, she doesn’t have anything to prove. She pushes off from the desk, steps towards him until she’s close enough that she can smell her: dust and leather, a hint of sweat, something else. She reaches down carefully, with no sudden movements. She’s behaving as if he were a dog in a trap, quiet right now but might snap at any moment. He holds still.

The next thing, he feels her hand in his hair – her flesh hand, not the metal one, moving in a slow stroke and ruffle. She’s petting him. It’s all he can do not to close his eyes and lean into it. 

The stroke turns into a scratch, her nails against his scalp, deeply satisfying. Then, still slowly, she closes her hand into a fist, tightening until she’s tugging his hair, tilting his head back to meet her eyes.

“You’ll need a safe word,” she says, still in that soft voice. “Something you won’t let go of, won’t forget.” Max swallows, wonders what she’s planning to do to him that she’s giving him another out.

“What’s yours?” he manages.

It’s the first thing he’s done that’s got under her guard, he’s sure of it. It’s also the moment when he realises this is no longer that game, that he’s no longer looking to challenge her. This truce of theirs might not last beyond sunset, but it will hold until then. She’s taken aback, but she’s not withdrawing from him. He doesn’t want her to.

“Something you won’t forget,” he prompts her. “Won’t let go.” There’s a long pause. She swallows; he watches the movement in her long, beautiful throat.

“Green Place,” she says at last, a new roughness in her voice. He has no idea what it means, but she isn’t faking, hasn’t made it up. He knows that the way he knows the smell of water. She’s looking at him, waiting for his own answer.

“Jessie.” If she’s bothered by his using another woman’s name, she doesn’t show it. She gives him a small nod, her hand still tight in his hair. 

Very slowly, she uncurls her fingers, sliding her hand down to reach for his wrist. It’s almost a caress, except that he knows it isn’t. When she unlocks the cuffs, he lets them fall but leaves his hands clasped together, waiting to see what she wants. She goes back to the desk, turning her back on him for those few paces, and leans against it.

“Strip,” she tells him. So he does, fumbling with his boots and his fastenings, defter with his leg brace. He leaves his shirt until last, conscious of his tattooed back: he doubts any of it will be news to her, but he doesn’t want to parade it. 

She watches him, her body easy as she leans against the desk, appreciative. A small, soft bit of Max is glad that she’s pleased: his cock twitches as she looks him over. 

“So you like it,” she says. He can hardly deny it. Then he remembers something.

“Won’t – I won’t come inside you,” he says. He has no idea if he’s still fertile, let alone if she is, but he won’t risk it. If she’s giving him choices, this one matters. To his surprise, she gives a bark of laughter.

“Too right, you won’t,” she agrees. Then, serious again, “Shall I chain your hands?” Max nods, not trusting his voice.

He holds very still while she cuffs him again, hands in front of him this time. She uses her prosthetic hand to keep him steady, her flesh fingers efficient as she clicks the fastenings into place. She’s smiling.

“You’d have liked the collar, wouldn’t you? But I prefer seeing your throat.” Instinctively, he lifts his head, stretching his neck for her. She strokes one flesh and bone finger from his chin to his collarbone, lingering. Max swallows hard. 

He’s taken by surprise when she smacks his bum with her metal hand, not hard but crisp. He loses so much time in the blood shed. She’s keeping him in the moment.

“Oh, you like that too.” She watches him until he nods. “Is it being spanked, or being made to pay attention?” He doesn’t answer, thinking that it’s probably both. 

“Lie down for me.” 

He gets down on the floor, moving carefully, making sure he doesn’t overbalance with his hands tied. Once he’s on his back on the cold stone floor, she steps quickly astride him, sitting on his chest.

Max bucks under her. It’s an automatic reaction, a habit too deeply ingrained to be removed. As a fighter, she’s strong and clever, knowing exactly where to put her weight to keep him trapped. She sits him out, staying perched on top of him like a rodeo rider, until he exhausts the panic and lies still for her. She sits there, looking down at him. 

“Good.” She reaches down with her metal hand, moving very slowly, making sure he can see what she’s doing. She rests it on his throat.

It’s terrifying. Her prosthetic is made of many steel parts. He doesn’t think any of its blades and sections have been sharpened, but how can he be sure? The span of her hand is articulated with powerful springs; she could crush his windpipe. Though she lays it gently on him, he can still feel the weight, the sense of being choked without the reality of it. She gets the position exactly right, then relaxes into it, leaving her hand just there.

Max is stretched out bare, his cock hard and his body vulnerable. He’s panting hard, his heart thumping in his throat, blood beating against the steel collar of her prosthetic. If she were using her flesh hand, she’d be touching his pulse. Without it, he has to trust that she can read him, that she can see the reactions she won’t be able to feel. She looks down at him, cool and sure.

He can’t tell how long they stay like this. His heart is going so fast that he can’t measure time by it. It feels like forever, held in this moment, but might just be seconds. At last, something eases: he’s still keyed up, still scared, but he finds he can accept it, some of the tension leaving him. She smiles.

“Good, you’re so good,” she tells him, satisfied. Max feels a flush of pleasure. “I want you to stroke yourself,” she tells him. “I want to watch you come.” He shudders under her. He can feel his throat moving against her hand, even if she can’t. She keeps her eyes on him, waiting for him to do as he’s told.

It’s a little awkward with cuffed hands, but he can reach. It doesn’t take long. He’s so hard and so worked up and she’s just there, her eyes holding him, waiting. He comes like that, held down and speared by her gaze, shaking under her with her hand still on his throat. 

When his eyes close, she lets go. He feels her climbing off him, then pulling him into a sitting position. He flops against her, face pressed to her shoulder, still panting. Perhaps she takes it as a gesture of affection. Perhaps that’s what it is. She moves her flesh hand to his hair, scratching again, slow and soothing. 

Max sighs, relaxing into it. He lets himself soak up the comfort of the moment, of a kind of touch he hasn’t had in years. Suddenly and vividly, he imagines her hand moving to cup his face, imagines himself kissing her palm. If his hands weren’t chained, he would be hanging on to her.

The reaction, when it comes, is like a falling dream, his whole body jerking in panic. 

“Jessie…” Even as he says it, he can’t tell if he’s using his safe word or calling out for his lost wife. 

The woman doesn’t know that. She recoils, pulling back from him, letting go and getting away. They stare at each other across a gap of a few feet. She looks as raw and shocked as he feels. After a moment, she lifts her hands, carefully holding them so he can see that they’re empty and unthreatening. He shakes himself, trying to get a grip on reality, on what’s actually happening. His panic is still seething, but it’s dawning on him that he’s rejected her. He looks up, meeting her eye. 

“Green Place,” she says, pulling further away. He nods, trying to fold in on himself. There’s a pause, both of them trying to get their breaths back.

“I need to undo your hands,” she says, without moving. He nods. She comes closer and undoes the lock, careful to stay as far out of his space as possible. Max is already missing the contact, the intimacy she’d given him. It’s not a gulf he knows how to bridge, not any more. When he thinks of how close they’d been a moment ago, it seems impossible, as far away as the time Before. 

“You can wash there and dress,” she tells him, nodding to the washstand. “We’re done.”

She’s offering him a luxury, water and soap, but he doesn’t feel safe enough to use it. He wipes himself off and scrambles into his clothes, desperate to get back into some kind of covering. 

Once he’s dressed, he doesn’t know what to do. They’re coming back at sunset, they’d said, but that’s still a while away. Slowly, he gets into his crouch again. She’s back against the desk, not staring, but glancing at him every now and then, checking him. Tension hangs in the air.

The same group of war boys come back to collect Max, pushing in in a gaggle when she opens the door. They’re eyeing her nervously but still trying to swagger. 

“Knew it, she worked him over worse than Scrotus would have,” one starts. 

“Nah, he’s not even bloody,” complains another. They all shuffle into silence at a look from her. One of them chains Max’s wrists, ready to lead him off.

He thinks that’s the end of it, looks back at her. It’s not an apology – he doesn’t owe her anything – but all the same, he’s sorry that it’s ended like this.

She meets his gaze, thoughtful. Then she speaks to the war boys.

“Organic’s taking too much blood from this one. Not enough left for my taste.” She makes it sound insulting, but he knows that’s not what she means, even before she adds, “Tell him that from me. We can’t afford carelessness.” Max recognises that she’s doing what she can for him, though he doubts he’ll ever see her again. It’s not until he’s back in the blood shed that he realises he doesn’t know her name.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
